Distracted √

Distracted: Chapter Nineteen

It was mid-December in D.C. and Erin rode the escalator up to the snowy street. The comforting aroma of donuts greeted Metro riders. On one corner, a musician played his saxophone, his case open on the sidewalk to catch coins and dollars. On another corner, a tall man preached loudly, "Whose side are you on?" Handmade signs with black, blocky letters quoted scripture. Another man, this one selling flowers to couples, approached her. "A rose for the lady?" Erin gave him a withering glare, and his hand dropped.

At her apartment entrance, she unlocked her mailbox. Inside she found another letter from Aidan, credit card bills, a magazine and a thick, white envelope. She held it under her nose. Mmmm ... smells expensive, she thought. She slid her fingernail under the flap and tore it open. It was an invitation to a gallery opening in March from her publisher. Enclosed was a return envelope for her R.S.V.P.

For the past several months, at Patricia's insistence, she worked with the 86-year-old musician Alex Campbell and helped him turn in a tidy memoir by deadline. Of course, 86 didn't mean he was dead and often Erin found herself removing his hand from her bottom.

"Dr. Campbell!"

The old man would grimace at her, his best leer. Erin began carrying a ruler and whenever his hands strayed, she smacked them. The device was a familiar one to the old teacher, and he soon developed a fondness for the spunky young woman. He even dedicated his book to her.

"Erin: My glass shall not persuade me I am old, so long as youth and thou are of one date."

"What did you do to that old man?" Patricia asked after reading the inscription.

"I whacked him with a ruler," she replied.

"You should have used it earlier," Patricia said, a sarcastic commentary on Erin's strange affair with Stephen Spence. Erin winced at the cheap shot.

Patricia ignored her pain. "Did you receive our invitation? Did you note that it's formal?"

Erin nodded.

"And will you be attending?"

"Yes. I've already sent my R.S.V.P.," Erin said.

"I'm double checking. You realize it's a gallery opening?"

Erin waved dismissively. "Yes. I'll be there and I'll leave my sweatshirt at home. Do you have anything interesting in the basket? Now that my groping genius is finished, I'm on the market again."

Patricia gave her a large envelope. "Read these queries and let me know what you think. Maybe there is something we'd like to publish."

"Are you asking me to be an acquisitions editor?" Erin felt dazed. Here was a chance to choose her work, to help new writers. There could be an amazing book in this stack of letters.

Patricia smiled fondly. She did care for Erin, despite the Stephen Spence catastrophe.

* * *

"If you're not coming here, then you'll have to spend Christmas in Florida with Mom and Dad."

Erin sighed. "Forget it, Mariah. I'm going to spend a quiet holiday at home."

"Too late; I already called them and they're expecting you. They've even redecorated the spare room since Mom has kept it filled with fishing tackle and poles."

"You didn't!"

"That's right. They've even bought you a non-refundable plane ticket so you can't worm out. You're going to have to face them sooner or later. I've got to go now. Ben's at the door," Mariah said and hung up.